


Vice

by Anonymous



Category: DreamSMP, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alexis | Quackity Needs a Hug, Angst, Character Study, Im tired, Mild Gore, Minor Character(s), Power Dynamics, Toxic Relationship, but also thirst for POWER, but its a metaphor so its ok, cannibalism(?), hah get it?, hammer curls, politics of the heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28341408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It became easy to know what the other would do, how they would act.Schlatt would slide a shot glass to him, and he had only to hear the glass growling against the wooden table to reach a hand out to catch it.“You’re my shadow,” he would grin.“And I yours,” Quackity would respond.ORA take on Quackity and Jschlatt's relationship, starting from the Election arc.//Inspired by 'No Children' by The Mountain Goats
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt
Comments: 2
Kudos: 48
Collections: Anonymous





	Vice

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the scenes are interpretations of what actually happened on stream, while others are made up.
> 
> cw for mild gore

The first time Quackity took notice of Schlatt was when he announced at the presidential debate in a drunken daze that he was running for office. 

Quackity had been in a tight position; as much as he was willing to stand his ground to the end, he was astute enough to tell that each speech given pushed POG2020 one step closer to victory, and him one closer to defeat. Tommy and Wilbur were quickly encroaching on his chances of winning, and with another endorsement brought into the picture, he could hardly imagine what he’d have to do to compete against them. 

Suddenly, like some sort of misguided miracle, this wreck of a man had arrived. Bottle in hand, he was hardly the picture of formality. Although his suit was pressed clean, his face was beet red, his hair fell into his face, and he seemed to be constantly out of breath. He had staggered onto the stage, lurched over the microphone, and proceeded to seeth and rant about democracy while barely managing to hold the microphone to his face to capture his own slurred words. 

“You think you need a president?” he’d challenged the crowd. “I’ll be my own president!” 

It caught his attention. Sure, Jschlatt was clearly a mess, but there was something about the way he spoke that rang differently. He had a passion, albeit manic, that coursed through what he said. And his voice– it almost seemed to echo, to reverberate across the stage. The man definitely had presence, and Quackity could work with that. 

While Tommy and Wilbur rushed over and whispered furiously to Schlatt, Quackity had made quiet eye contact with him and mouthed the name of his party. Alone, he had no chance of taking the presidency, but if there was another possible path to victory, he wouldn’t mind making a few tactful moves to secure it. 

A few hours later, he was seated across from Schlatt, a table between them decorated with glasses dark with wine. Evening had fallen, and the sun was just beginning to bleed soft orange through the windows. 

Schlatt was looking much more coherent now. His hair was combed back and greased, and his eyes were more focused. Quackity hadn’t noticed how intense his stare was before. He leant back.

“So you think you’ve got a chance?” He aimed for a nonchalant tone. Play it cool, let the request become an offer. He watched a small smile form on Schlatt’s face. 

“Yeah, I think I’ve got a chance.” Schlatt chuckled, taking a glass and swirling it slowly. “If there’s anyone who’s got a chance, it’s me.” 

“If we combine our votes, of course,” Quackity reminded him. He watched as Schlatt swirled the glass again.

“Of course.” 

The air thrummed in eagerness. Quackity allowed himself to break it. 

“You know, POG2020 has also asked me to form a coalition with them. I’m having a difficult time choosing who to support.” It was a lie, of course. There was no way he’d have any political footing if Tommy and Wilbur were to win, but he was curious to see how the man across the table would respond. 

Schlatt scoffed. “Please. You and I both know that your campaign is going nowhere. Your vice president didn’t even show up.” 

Quackity smiled grimly. “He was busy.” 

“Yeah, busy barely looking beyond his own nose.” Schlatt’s voice rose scornfully. “Do you really want to depend on him to help you win this thing?” 

It turned out that Schlatt was just as undiplomatic sober as he was drunk. A minor issue, but Quackity could deal with this. 

“So, what’s the proposal? What are we talking about here?” He took a glass of wine, hoping to distract his hands with something.

Schlatt crossed his arms and smiled. “We’re talking about you being a member in my cabinet.” 

Quackity looked forward expectantly. “And all I have to do is…?”

“Sit there and look pretty.” 

The response silenced him for a moment. He searched Schlatt’s face for an indication of mockery and found none. He let out a surprised laugh. “I can do that.” The bluntness of Schlatt’s answer seemed to warrant an equal level of informality. “I can totally do that.”

Schlatt grinned. “Sounds like a deal.” 

  


* * *

  


A week later, SchWAG2020 was announced the winner of the presidential election. Schlatt walked to the podium again, this time poised and purposeful, and gave his speech. 

_“Well, that was pretty easy.”_

Quackity held back a chuckle. They’d collaborated on writing the victory speech, but he couldn’t have stopped Schlatt from sprinkling in his own dramatic flair. 

_“You know what I said the day I got unbanned from the Dream SMP? I said things are gonna change.”_

A quiet had overcome the audience members. They watched, entranced, as he spoke. 

_“I looked every citizen of L’Manberg in the eyes and I said, ‘You listen to me, this place will be a lot different tomorrow,’”_

A few gasps echoed through the audience’s stunned silence. “Holy shit…” he heard himself murmur. He knew Schlatt could give a speech, but he hadn’t expected the power, the _menace_ that emanated from him now. 

_“My first decree as the president of L’Manberg, the EMPEROR of this great country,”_

“Yes sir,” Quackity growled. From his position beside Schlatt he could look over all the citizens, see their rivals tremble beneath them. 

_“Is to revoke the citizenship of Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit.”_

“Yes, baby! Yes!” He yelled as calls of panic spread through the people. “Get ‘em out of here! Get ‘em out of here!” He felt drunk. He felt powerful. 

_“We are entering into a new period of L’Manberg. A period of prosperity! Of strength! Of unity.”_

Quackity hollered in support. 

And so began their relationship as president and vice president of L’Manberg. 

  


* * *

  


After banishing Tommy and Wilbur, Schlatt decided to make Tubbo his right hand man. Of course, it was only for purely political reasons, he said. Having leverage over the rebel group would be beneficial to both of them.  
Quackity would always agree with him, but it left a bad taste in his mouth whenever he saw Tubbo be put in charge of some new project. 

“I know you want the kid to think you trust him,” he said lightly one day as they overlooked the country from the White House, “but don’t you’re giving him a little too much free range?”

Schlatt scoffed. “Please. Are you saying that you want to deal with all the bullshit he’s working on? The kid’s busy all day.” He sat with a bottle of bear beside him, one leg crossed over the other. 

“I’m not saying I want to take down the walls myself, but shouldn’t we be doing some of the management at least? As the rulers of the L’Manberg?”

Schlatt groaned. “Do you have to bring this up again? Remember our agreement? Your job is to sit in my cabinet and look pretty.” He seemed to regret what he said, cutting the last word short.  
“Listen,” he amended. “If you want to mess around with the country’s plans, be my guest. But there’s no point in worrying about it.” He took a swig of his beer and gestured to Quackity’s guitar, which leant against the corner of the room.

“Hey, why don’t you play a song?” he suggested. “You know I can’t play shit. But I always hear you strumming chords and stuff.” 

Quackity sighed and smiled wearily. “Yeah, I bet I could figure something out.” He sat down beside Schlatt and tried out a few chords. He landed on a plucky little progression and began to strum. 

“You know how Wilbur and Tommy won’t be able to come to the Festival?” he asked, his smile growing. Schlatt nodded. “Yeah?”  
“Well, this is what they’re going to do in their free time.” He began to sing, doing a comical exaggeration of Wilbur’s accent. 

_“I miss L’Manberg… I miss L’Manberg.”_

Schlatt burst into laughter. “Seriously?” 

“Shhh” Quackity nudged at him, giggling. “Let me create beautiful music.” 

“Okay, okay. Go on,” Schlatt waved a hand at him in amusement.

_“I miss it so much… I’m not going to be allowed in L’Manberg… I’m going to go read a book.”_

Schlatt snorted. 

“Hey!” Quackity protested through his own laughs. “I’m getting to the good part!” 

“Sorry,” Schlatt wheezed out. “Continue. Please.”

Quackity began to strum faster. _“I’m takin’ L’s… I’m takin’ L’s… That’s why it’s Manberg, and not L’Manberg.”_

Schlatt fell into another round of laughter as Quackity continued to sing. The next few verses became a mixture of breathless, off-pitch singing as they tried to get through the song. 

Suddenly, Quackity turned to Schlatt, face red with exhilaration. “It’s time for your part,” he grinned. 

“What? I can’t sing, Quackity.” 

“Don’t worry about it! Just follow along,” Quackity proposed.

“Fine, fine,” Schlatt grumbled. 

Quackity cheered. He closed his eyes and seemed to reflect for a moment. _“Aayyyy”_ he half spoke, half sang. 

Schlatt facepalmed. 

“C’mon!” Quackity prompted him.

“Ayyyy,” came the muffled response. 

“Woahhhhh..” Quackity broke down. Soon the two were gasping for breath amidst their laughing. 

Schlatt wiped a fake tear from his eye. “That was beautiful. Truly genius.” 

“Thank you, thank you.” Quackity mock bowed. 

Schlatt chuckled and paused for a moment, seeming to be considering something. “You should sing more often,” he finally said. His voice was warm. 

Quackity placed the guitar back in the corner. “Thanks,” he said softly. 

Schlatt hummed quietly in response. 

As such, they became more than just the president and vice president. For the next few months, things seemed to click. It became easy to know what the other would do, how they would act. 

Schlatt would slide a shot glass to him, and he had only to hear the glass growling against the wooden table to reach a hand out to catch it. 

“You’re my shadow,” he would grin. 

“And I yours,” Quackity would respond. 

  


* * *

  


Whether or not he had the right to be, Quackity was proud of the festival preparations. Balloons and banners embellished the houses, and as the citizens of Manberg streamed into the plazas, he felt that maybe he was finally seeing the Manberg as it was meant to be: powerful, organized, unified. 

When Tubbo walked to the podium to deliver a speech, Quackity felt almost happy to see him celebrating with the rest of them. 

So when Jschlatt laughed quietly, _bitterly_ , when Tubbo finished his speech, he was still hoping that nothing would go wrong. 

But he knew the way that Schlatt laughed, and he knew that the one he made now was not one of mirth, but of hatred. 

Schlatt handed him concrete and told him to build. So he did. 

And he watched as Schlatt stood before Tubbo– 16-year-old Tubbo with a freshly pressed suit on and a day-old haircut– and laughed. And said, “I know what you’ve been up to.” And then laughed some more in that sneering, disgusted way he sometimes did. And then ordered Technoblade to come up to the podium, a crossbow in hand.

But of course he still didn’t let himself believe what was happening. Even as he played along with Schlatt’s euphemisms and built a place for Technoblade to stand on so he could look Tubbo straight in the eyes. 

He didn’t really start to realize until Schlatt gestured to Techno’s crossbow and asked for a special favor. 

“What are you actually talking about?” Quackity asked hesitantly. 

Schlatt looked at him with what looked almost like disappointment. 

“Techno, I need you to take him out. Murder him right now on this FUCKING STAGE. And make it hurt.”

Quackity’s breath caught in his throat. He looked to the audience, saw each face illuminated by party lights. Manberg was terrified. 

“Schlatt,” he tried. “Are you sure about this? We have him jailed. I think that’s enough.” 

“It’s not enough,” was the cold response.

Quackity backed away, into the corners of the stage. His eyes fixed on the shimmering rockets in Technoblade’s crossbow. He looked up and saw Schlatt with an expression of terrifying glee as he laughed that same cruel laugh. 

When Technoblade pointed the crossbow toward Schlatt, he made no move to save him. But it didn’t matter anyways, because Schlatt had grabbed Quackity and shoved him in front of himself. Too bad the rockets blew straight through both of them. 

The rest of the Festival was spent scrubbing the podium clean. 

  


* * *

  


Quackity returned to the White House late that night. His chest was still sore, and his head ached mildly. When he entered, he heard heavy breathing from the gym room. 

Of course Schlatt would be exercising even after getting blown to bits by a literal rocket, Quackity thought wryly. He took off his jacket, hung it by the door, and went toward the sound. 

A cold, wet air hit him immediately when he entered the room. Bright fluorescent lights flooded out, and he had squinted his eyes as he looked around. 

Quackity had never liked the gym room. It was spacious in a claustrophobia-inducing way. The tiled floor was perpetually shined to an unnerving degree of reflection, and the walls were a frigid, clinical white. His associates could mock him however much they wished for not exercising here; he preferred to spend as little time in this room as possible.  
Now, like most days, it was completely empty save for one person. 

Schlatt was on a bench, lifting weights again– his favorite activity besides ordering people around. And he looked awful. 

His face was flushed deep red, tinged almost with purple. Sweat dripped down his arms, legs and face in thick rivulets. He was breathing furiously, his voice so strained it sounded as though he was gasping. The cap of his water bottle was flung to the opposite side of the room.

Quackity approached him slowly. At his side, he could feel heat emanating from Schlatt’s skin. 

“You really shouldn’t be doing this right now,” he began tentatively. “You should be recovering. We both should be.” 

Schlatt seemed not to hear him, clenching his jaw as he lifted the weights again. He looked angry, like he was staring down some enemy above him. 

“Please,” Quackity tried again, “maybe it wasn’t the best idea to hire Technoblade to…” he paused, “...finished the job, but you got what you wanted, didn’t you? You–”

Schlatt breathed out heavily. With seemingly great effort, he grunted out, “You think I wanted this? To be fucking,” he paused as he lifted the weight upward, “killed by Technoblade in front of the whole country?” 

Quackity gritted his teeth. “Isn’t it? You had Tubbo organize a festival that he was to be executed at. You invited Techno, who we know has worked with Tommy and Wilbur, to do it.” 

Schlatt began to tremble. “It was to send a message. Manberg was getting a little too rowdy for my taste.”

Quackity scoffed. “Manberg was under our control, Schlatt.” He tried to hold his tongue. “If anybody is out of control here, it’s you.” Ah, guess not. If only he could shut up for once. 

Schlatt furrowed his eyebrows in a glare. “I am in control, Quackity. I am the president. You are my subordinate.”

“And look where that fucking got you!” Quackity snapped. He gestured to the room. “You’ve decided to put yourself in this… this fucking disgusting room and kill yourself a second time!” He felt his face growing red. His chest ached.  
“If you could just listen to me for once, we could rule the country together! I would have talked you out of this stupid plan, and we wouldn’t have died! Manberg wouldn’t have a fucking massacre on its record! And also, can you put the fucking weights aside?” He finished, his breathing fast and wild. 

Schlatt lifted the weight one, two, three more times before responding. “Don’t ever say that,” he growled. “Don’t ever try to talk me out of something. I’m a man. I know what I fucking want.” 

A silence, sharp and violent, fell upon them. 

“I thought you wanted to work with me to rule Manberg. Together,” Quackity said, his words bitter against his tongue. 

For a moment, Schlatt didn’t respond. His skin seemed even more purple than before, and sweat was streaming down his cheeks now, perhaps mixing with something else. But he’d hesitated too long for any good explanation. 

Quackity left Schlatt panting under the dumbbell, his face red and pained. He didn’t care. Didn’t care how heavy the wheezes fell behind him, didn’t care about the white walls or the glossy tiles or the way Schlatt always fucking chose self-destruction over him.  
He didn’t care when he slammed the door close behind him on that goddamn gym. And he cared even less as he stomped out of the room and halfway down the hallway, his hands in fists at his sides. His vision blurred at the edges. 

It became harder to believe when less than a minute later he was running back to help Schlatt up, muttering a soft “c’mon now,” and “it’s much too late for this.” 

Schlatt, even with one arm slung over his shoulders, had sneered. Through gulps of breaths he snarled and smiled in a terrible way and said, “You know, Quackity. If I’m going down,” he let out a strained laugh, “if I’m going down, you’re going down with me.” Then he leaned heavily against Quackity’s shoulders and closed his eyes, seeming further drained by just the few words he spoke. 

Quackity looked away, at the smooth white walls. For a moment he didn’t say anything, instead listening as Schlatt’s pants slowed to a softer rhythm. He imagined stepping to the pedestal alone, taking Schlatt’s position. He imagined himself at Schlatt’s funeral. “You’re not planning on that happening anytime soon, are you?” he asked him quietly.

At first it seemed that Schlatt wasn’t going to respond. His breathing was shallow, and he looked almost to be falling asleep. But just as Quackity was about to heave a sigh, he spoke in a low voice, so quiet Quackity almost missed his response. 

“Of course not, Quackity. Of course not.” Then he fell silent again. 

With his feet like weights, Quackity had carried him to bed. He laid the blanket over him gently and flicked off the light. Now was the time to leave, to forget today and move on to tomorrow, together. 

But he couldn’t bring himself to leave. He watched Schlatt’s shadowed face and tried to picture the man that he’d won the election with. 

_Neither of us are going down alone._  
He stayed there for a few hours more, watching the slow rise and fall of Schlatt’s chest under the blanket. 

  


* * *

  


A week later, he shot Schlatt dead where he stood. 

The sun had been scorching hot. The air blistered angrily. They stood alone on a hill, the White House looming behind them. Their White House. 

Schlatt had laughed as he led him up– one of his good laughs, one that Quackity could join in on. He’d brought some firecrackers to set off, and they’d watched and cheered as they popped and crackled in the sweltering sky.  
For an instant, the future looked bright. 

Then Schlatt brought out two tree saplings. 

“One for me,” he smiled and held out the other, “and one for you.” 

Quackity took it carefully in his hand, seeing loose soil fall onto the grass as he took hold of it. It seemed to be a birch sapling, its bark a chipped white and leaves a dusty green. Its branches were only as thin as pencils. It felt fragile as glass in his hand. 

“Pretty, aren’t they?” Schlatt said, crossing his arms and looking up at the White House. 

“Sure,” Quackity responded. He hesitated. “I never thought you’d be one to give gifts like this. I’m not sure what I’ll do with it.” 

Schlatt laughed, like he was in on some joke that Quackity wasn’t privy to. He turned to Quackity with an awfully familiar expression and said, “Why do you think we’re here, Quackity?” 

The sun burnt against Quackity’s back. The air felt tight. Schlatt sighed and rapped a knuckle against the door. Then he said, “The White House: to be demolished. And we’re gonna put these saplings right on this bitch.” 

In hindsight, it was difficult to remember the rest of what happened. He’d screamed and yelled at Schlatt to stop; that was for sure. A pickaxe had been shoved into his hands at some point before Schlatt started tearing down the building itself. 

But beyond the heat of the day and the texture of the birch sapling against his hands, the next thing he really remembered was himself with an arrow pulled back to his ear. 

“Manberg would have been better off with different leadership,” he’d said. 

Schlatt had laughed, rough and cruel. “You can’t do it,” he’d said while dismantling the stairs. “You’re Quackity, and you’re too much of a pussy to–” 

As much experience as Quackity had with dealing with Schlatt, an arrow to the chest was the fastest way he’d ever been able to make him shut up. 

  


* * *

  


The last time he would ever see Schlatt, Quackity was armed to the teeth with an army by his side. They were bruised and bloodied from battle against Dream and the rest of Manberg, but victory had granted them new energy. As Dream led them to the battered remains of the Camarvan, they chattered to each other in an enthused curiosity. 

Quackity trailed from behind, watching the others climb up mounds of debris and break through shattered windows. From ahead, Wilbur said something in an urgent voice, and suddenly a single name was echoing on everyone’s lips. 

“Schlatt?”  
Quackity felt his heart quicken. 

A sick, tight feeling began to crawl up his chest. Time quickened. Some amalgamation of fear and breathless excitement was swelling up within him, and as he began pushing aside a wall of debris to enter the van, he noticed that his hands were trembling. 

Now was his moment to finally overtake Schlatt, he thought, throwing clumps of dirt and rock to the side. He would finally prove himself to be just as capable, just as strong as the president. It was _him_ that put Schlatt in power in the first place, anyways. Schlatt had taken his power away, and he would fight to get it back. He pushed through the last bit of rubble and entered the van, grip tight on his sword. 

What Quackity should have seen was Schlatt in a pressed suit and tie, shoes shined and hair slicked back. What he should have seen was a quirked eyebrow, a wicked smile, and an always-deceptive glint in his eye. He was supposed to snarl and point his sword and say, “You’re going down, Schlatt. For real now.” 

But the words that fell from his lips were small and uncertain. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Schlatt stood alone at the center of the van. In one hand was a half-emptied beer bottle and in the other was a dumbbell. His hair was messy and clearly run through too many times, and dark bags fell under his eyes. When he turned to look at the circle of people surrounding him, he staggered unevenly from one foot to the other.

It was almost like on the podium, Quackity thought faintly. Except now the audience surrounded Schlatt from above, on wrecked walls and piles of debris, each with a blade and arrow pointed directly at him. How ironic. 

“Do you want me to end it?” he heard Wilbur asked Dream. Although they were winning, it sounded like he was asking for permission. 

“I don’t even know what to say,” he heard Dream reply. 

Quietly, Quackity approached Schlatt. The stench of alcohol was thick around him, and for a moment he remembered drinking and playing music together in the White House, each other’s company quiet and secure. 

Suddenly, Schlatt grabbed a broken bottle from the floor and began to swing it toward Fundy. Quackity rushed between them, feeling the bottle smash into shards against his shield. 

Then Fundy was screaming, “You had a dream and I followed it!” And Quackity pitied him, because although both of them had fallen for Schlatt’s promises, only one of them denied it to be true. 

Schlatt had already picked up another broken bottle and was swinging it forward in aimless punches at whoever approached him. Nobody reciprocated the blows. They all stood back against the wall, taking each of his lackluster attempts against their shields, flinching at each blow with furrowed brows and locked jaws but not doing anything back and–

–before he knew it, Quackity had stepped forward and was yelling at Schlatt. “Put the bottle down,” he begged as Schlatt picked up a sword and hacked wildly at the air. “Schlatt!” 

It wasn’t about the broken bottles or the sword, really. He didn’t give a shit about that. But he couldn’t bear to watch Schlatt stumble around, wasted and idiotic, as everyone watched. This was the man that he formed a coalition with to take the L’Manberg presidency. This was the man that finally gave him positions of power and laughed with him about the most stupid things. This was the man that grabbed him by the arm and flung him before Technoblade’s rocket to save himself. Hell if he’d let that man show everyone that he was powerless and delusional after everything they’d been through together. 

“Calm down,” he urged, cautiously laying a hand on Schlatt’s shoulder. He thought he saw something change in Schlatt’s expression, ever so slightly. 

As Wilbur announced that it was victory or death and ordered Tommy to put an arrow between his eyes, Schlatt took a long swig from his bottle. Then he put it down and looked up, and Quackity saw something new in his eyes. It was that clear intensity that he was so familiar with– that confidence that came from knowing something that no one else knew. 

Schlatt spoke in a low, amused voice. “You know, if I die, this country goes down with me,” he said. 

And Quackity remembered how Schlatt had looked at him and said the same thing when they still had the White House. He remembered watching Schlatt passed out on the bed, finally safe, and praying he would stay that way.

“You could have had it Schlatt,” he said, and it was remarkable how steady his voice was. “You could have had it all.” 

Then Schlatt turned to him, and Quackity took a step back. Anger was carved into Schlatt’s face, twisting his features and boring into Quackity, but beneath that, there was another, desperate sort of sadness. 

“I had everyone turn on me,” Schlatt growled, his voice low and hoarse. “In my time of need, everybody left.” He snarled and threw a punch at Quackity. “ _You_ left.” 

Quackity dodged to the side, his heart pounding in his chest. “I had to!” he protested. Schlatt swung again, and he lifted his shield. “You made a mistake,” he hissed. “You made the biggest mistake, and that was not taking me in.” Schlatt was undeterred, throwing punch after missed punch through labored breaths. 

“Stop!” Quackity choked out. Why could Schlatt never _talk_ to him when it counted most? “Schlatt, I don’t even want to speak to you! This is _your_ fault! _You_ took down the White House. If you hadn’t taken down the White House, we could have done something _good_ with this country.”

“Says the guy who can’t even curl the fucking barbell,” Schlatt mocked, raising the bottle to his lips again. 

And Quackity just stopped trying. 

“We could have had everything,” he spit. Then he turned to Tommy. “Just end this.” He wanted to see Schlatt dead– wanted to see him get shot between the eyes and turned to dust. He never wanted to see him again. 

Tommy pulled back the arrow and held it to Schlatt’s head. The van went quiet, the army becoming a hushed audience on the edge of their seats, ready to watch a villain be destroyed. 

Schlatt coughed. Then he coughed again, and when he exhaled it was a breathless wheeze. “I don’t feel so good,” he murmured, and his voice shook so much Quackity wondered if he was crying. He continued to pant in harsh, strenuous gasps for a few moments more. Then suddenly, like all his energy had just disappeared, Schlatt coughed one more time and collapsed to the floor. 

Surrounded by the chaos of shrieks of shock and joy, Quackity thought he heard the echo of a voice whisper in his ear. He barely noticed over his own sobbing. 

  


* * *

  


At the funeral ceremony of President Jschlatt, Quackity had eaten the corpse’s heart. It had been strewn alongside the rest of his body, which the funeral attendees had already begun to disassemble. 

Quackity probably would have thought them deranged, if he were not distracted by someone off in the distance.  
There, just beyond the hill, on the horizon line, stood a man. Sunlight outlined his figure in golden thread, yet he also seemed to be shimmering in and out of view.  
He was tall, with a clean black suit and hair slicked back. His grin was as sharp as a knife, and he had a knowing glimmer in his eyes. 

He was saying something, from all that distance away. Quackity squinted and tried to make it out.

“Congratulations, Mr. Secretary of State.” 

The next instant, he was gone. 

Quackity looked at the corpse of his partner, laid upon the white satin of a coffin. White wasn’t the right color for Jschlatt, Quackity thought. He reached out and took the heart in his hands. He lifted it to his mouth and noticed that it was cold against his skin. Then he bit into it, letting red drip down his chin and into the coffin. 

He swallowed it, and it was a victory, a celebration, a final farewell, and a fuck-you too. And from the podium, Quackity began to laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Probably a Plant's animatic "I hope we both die" on Youtube. Check it out, it's amazing!


End file.
